Wednesday, October 31, 2007


Originally uploaded by lorenzodom


“They’re real,” she impressed into me, digging her shiny white nails into my forearm.

Burberry lingers, clinging to my jacket, entrenching itself into my memory, lingering much like cannabis blocks adenosine from binding—leaving one wondering why he feels so empty, and yet, rife with the desire to be overflowingly fulfilled again.

After many years of frivolously expending my youth, I’m learning that pure pleasure comes in the simplest forms: hearty food, heavy wine, good company, great sex, and the freedom to leisurely enjoy them all.

Occasionally, I’m startled out of my office-stupor by sudden images of mouths full-of-me and tongues lapping endearingly, silhouettes writhing in the back seat of yellow taxicabs speeding down the West Side Highway, two souls wrestling in the synaptic gap between deferred gratification and pressing desire.

Definitely, Good Times were had with JJ; One of my most cherished memories will long be the cherub faces looking up at me as I read Stone Soup to Nicky’s kindergarten class; yes, the greatest pleasures in life are often the simplest—sombra e √°gua fresca; Feijoada com uma gatinha, uma menina trilegal—com certeza! Pra caramba!

And, yes, white rice was the better choice.

Friday, October 26, 2007

And Now, For Something A Little Crazy… (My First Gusano)

And Now, For Something A Little Crazy… (My First Gusano)
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

As some of you have read, I really didn’t have due cause to celebrate my tenth wedding anniversary yesterday. So, instead, I decided to do something a little crazy yesternight. Read the following story to find out what I did, and watch the related video at the end!

And Now, For Something A Little Crazy…
(My First Gusano)

“Don't waste your youth growing up.”
Author Unknown

Last night I had my very first gusano. For the uninitiated, that’s the “worm” that rests awaiting at the bottom of a bottle of Mexican Mezcal. It is actually the larva of one of two moths that typically live on the agave plant that provides the juice that Mezcal is distilled from.

It happened to be “Lunacy” night at Studio 304 in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and there was a group of 75 or so photojournalists and professional photographers that regularly get together to share their work.

In honor of the full moon, the theme for the evening followed the following guidelines:

1 : any of various forms of insanity: as a : intermittent insanity once believed to be related to phases of the moon b : insanity amounting to lack of capacity or of responsibility in the eyes of the law.
2 : wild foolishness : extravagant folly
3 : a foolish act

I was invited to submit either photos or video, and so I created a 4-minute video of stills that celebrated the sanity of youth juxtaposed against the so-called sanity of maturity.

In other words, what I tried to convey through a hodgepodge of photos of my two sons, Enzo and Nicky, and few other photos of crazy friends, was that for some strange reason we eventually turn things inside-out and upside-down as we grow older, so that ironically, what comes naturally to us as children, becomes our moments of redeeming insanity as adults.

Anyway, so I let myself go for this evening and tried to have fun, tried to behave accordingly and act in as an impromptu, whimsical manner as possible.

Thus, when I was offered the holy gusano in a shot glass that was being shown off by Jan, I immediately said “Yes!,” trying not to think about this impulsive decision all too much, allowing vestiges of my favorite Kipling poem, If, prod me on..."And then you'll be a man my son."

“Age considers; youth ventures.”
— Rabindranath Tagore —

The diptych above beautifully captures the moment, because I quickly went from a grin of smug, yet foolish, bravery to the horrible feeling of the ridges of the larvae scratching my esophagus, as it slid down my throat.

“Gads! Yuck! Blah!” I winced, as I slightly struggled to swallow it, almost panicking because for a fraction of a second it felt as if it were stuck.

I believe a brief look at the anatomy of the larvae might duly illustrate why time suddenly slowed down for me…

Larvae are typically elongate and divided into head, thorax, and abdomen.

The head bears a set of short, yet powerful, mandibles, short antennae, and eyes. In addition, a tubular spinneret emits liquid silk.

The thorax is made of three segments: the prothorax, mesothorax, and metathorax, each with a pair of short, jointed legs.

The abdomen has ten visible segments, with a pair of short, fleshy prolegs on some of the segments, which bear several short hooks, or “crotchets.” Other segments have “spiracles,” which admit air to a very complex system of tracheae.

Yummy! Sounds tasty, don’t it?

Teneris, heu, lubrica moribus aetas!
(Alas! the slippery nature of tender youth.)
— Claudianus —

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I’ve uploaded my very first YouTube video, the presentation I made last night: Click HERE to watch!


Thursday, October 25, 2007


Originally uploaded by lorenzodom


I cannot wait.
My motives lie impatiently,
spinning past, present into future;
a vertigo of what I would be.

Destiny, that elusive desire

I have no clothes
without stains on them.
I often write and eat,
no reason to mind exteriors.

plugging away, saying
I do when I don’t, if only
because dowill get me
farther, faster.

Ulterior, far beyond
daily means, living my
dreams, ultimately.

I will.

exuberance really (an old story)

exuberance really
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

I think dirty thoughts of girls with dry-clean blue dresses on,
strewn amongst golden spades and fallen columns.

and I think, with one eye open, that marrying a poet might fool me long enough
to speed me past the usual breaking point.

and I think that should I meet someone who wears saltwater sandals I would save
and save and save in the fall and through the winter and into spring, enough, just enough
to buy her a new pair of them, those same saltwater sandals—every summer,
just a new color,
and I’d paint her nails red, slowly, right before giving them to her, and I’d even place tissue paper between her toes, just so we could pretend that I know what I am doing.

I think Fridays and Sunday and Mondays even! might make me happy
when I find this poetress with the blue dress on, that I want to dirty, soil
with words meant to cleanse the soul of peanut-butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

and I think and I think and I think, albeit it is far past my time-to-sleep and that I am supposed to wake up soon again that I must write and finish this damned thinking, because I want to love
this devil with the blue dress on, I want to spawn more monsters with her, I want to write volumes
of verse for her, I want to have an odd number of syllables slide off my tongue
knowing she is the one, that makes me write and feel like I must….

and then, after I have acted without thinking and I have conveyed exactly what I was thinking and I have time to think about what I have done, I begin to wish I hadn’t.

it’s a matter of exuberance really, that’s what it is, that’s really all I want. I want that.

—it’s all an old story;
I always say too much
speak too loudly,
and spew.

What do you do whenever you get excited?

I just can’t keep my mouth shut,
‘cause there is simply nothing furtive about me.

“I love the words that comes towards me like a man, with sparkling eyes, with a loud voice, breathing hard and with great gestures of the hands. I want to hear the writer laugh and cry in it, to hear him whisper and shout, to feel him sigh and pant. I want his language to loom up before me like a tangible and resounding organism; I want him, when I read him in my room, to reveal to me a spirit that enters into me and seems to ascend within me from out of his pages.”
— Lodewijk van Deijssel —

Get Real

Get Real
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Get Real

Sometimes I feel like a third set of teeth
that never came in.

As if, I never existed, as if
artifice is the only means of getting noticed
or accepted or approved—
pretending all the time.

Simply being human is not divine,
and a futile exercise otherwise.
Because then, than I get noticed for the wrong reasons:
then I’m for real, and much like everyone else.

Then, I might be a set of crooked, off-white teeth.


A Serenity Prayer for the Stressed

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I cannot accept, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of those people I had to kill today because they pissed me off.

And also, help me to be careful of the toes I step on today, as they may be connected to the ass that I may have to kiss tomorrow.

Help me to always give 100% at work: 12% on Monday, 23% on Tuesday, 40% on Wednesday, 20% on Thursday, 5% on Fridays.

Finally, help me to remember, when I'm having a really bad day and it seems that people are trying to piss me off, that it takes 42 muscles to frown and only 4 to extend my middle finger and tell them to bite me.


— anonymous —

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Just Ask Icarus

Just Ask Icarus
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

We sit on the greasy grass,
on the greasy grass we sit.

I’d like to believe this earth will last;
alas, like love, it will only endure
as long as we love it.

From the look of it though,
we no longer love the earth.

We love money, we love industry, we love oil,
because it can get us from here to there faster,
than if we were walking.

From Bombay to Beijing everyone is beginning to run—
faster, faster, faster, kill, kill, kill!
the thrill of progress is upon them.

Less bikes, more cars = more progress, more pollution.

The inconvenient truth is that mother earth
may not survive the imposition of
the new world order upon an old-old world.

In grade school, I feared that nukes would be the end of us.

Today, my children must fret over an attack from two sides:
the continual threat of terrorism and a looming environmental disaster.

Man has long been fascinated with the power of the sun.
It’s time we heed the words of Daedalus,
before we suffer a truer understanding.

Some things are best left unknown–
just ask Icarus.

In A Dream (Happy 10th Anniversary)

In A Dream (Happy 10th Anniversary)
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

original photo

And now the purple dust of twilight time
Steals across the meadows of my heart.
High up in the sky, the little stars twine,
Always reminding me that we're apart.
You wandered down the lane and far away,
Leaving me a song that will not die;
Love is now the stardust of Yesterday,
The music of the years gone by...

In A Dream
(Happy 10th Anniversary)

I sent a text-message for the very first time to my estranged wife this morning.

Admittedly, it was a special one too.

Perhaps, I was compelled to write to make up for the one I didn’t send a few days ago. Perhaps, I wrote it because there have been far too many times over the years that I wanted to say something nice and something suddenly got in the way—or clamored a little louder or spoiled the moment in one way or another—much like how, on a billboard with a thousand other business cards , it is easy for your message to get lost amongst the fray.

Or perhaps, the motivation behind the message was compensation for all the lost years that have passed between us.

Nonetheless and allthemore, I wrote the following:

Just have to tell you that I dreamt of u-s last night and it reminded me of all the wonderful feelings we used to share. Btw, happy anniversary. Lorenzo


Oddly enough, as I was thumbing at the numbers simply to write about the dream, I suddenly remembered that today was, is, our anniversary date, our 10th anniversary.

I want to believe that any melancholy I might tender today is due to token remorse, but then, I had that dream.

There could be no stranger coincidence, because not only was our anniversary the farthest thing on my mind, but for some time now I actually had been searching for how I used to feel for her.

Every time someone asks me about the separation and how I feel, I usually earnestly and glibly answer, “I have no more feelings for her.” And that’s that.

For some odd reason, the women who ask, almost always, then ask, “Well how did you used to feel for her?”

Alas, I usually can only answer in the vaguest terms, “Uh, differently…I guess.”

For I know I loved her dearly, if not deeply. And as the mother of our children, as the person I shared much of the last decade of my life with, indeed I still and will always love and appreciate her for all the well-meaning effort and the two miracles she delivered to the world.

Yet, I’ve lost that loving feeling and I no longer would want to share and slurp on a single thread of spaghetti with her.

However, I found that-loving-feeling again in that dream, last night.

We were simply conversing, as far as I recall, chatting casually about nothing in particular, and suddenly, pangfully, she glanced at me like she used to—a shy glance toward me, while her smile coyly hid the other way. It was that same untainted and demure expression I used to know and love and cherish so well, one that magically always pulled me in; it was that smile, the one before the house, the job, the children and a million and one decisions and obligations that slowly but surely pulled us apart, if only because it became increasingly difficult to agree upon them all.

Yes, that smile brought it all back to me.


Alas, it looks like we’re not going on our Alaskan adventure after all, the one we began saving all our pennies for as soon as we returned from our honeymoon, but at least I remembered that smile, the one that used to mean the world to me.

I have no regrets. I accept that the disintegration of our relationship is all too normal and that the end is not the end. I like to think that it is only the beginning.

And since we are actually not divorced yet, I’d like to say, strange as it may seem, for I really harbor no hard feelings, Happy Anniversary Domenica, thank you for everything.

We are rather fortunate to have two beautiful boys and they are likewise lucky to have you as their mother.


...Sometimes, I wonder why I'll spend
The lonely night dreaming of a song.
The melody, haunts my revelry,
And I am once again with you.
When our love was new
And each kiss an inspiration,
But that was long ago,
Now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song.

Beside a garden wall
Where stars are bright
You are in my arms;
The nightingale tells its fairy tale
Of paradise where roses bloom.
Though I dream in vain,
In my heart
It will remain—
My stardust melody,
The memory of loves refrain.

Stardust, Hoagey Carmichael & Mitchel Parish —

p.s. Albeit, our anniversary make actually be tomorrow (because after all these years I’m still not sure if it is 24 or 25), I say better a day early, than to have forgotten. No?

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

My Silly Needs

My Silly Needs
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

My Silly Needs

I don’t need much,
I know that.

In truth,
most of my needs are really,
merely, wants.

I don’t need to be entangled
in the torrid middle of a ménage-a-trois,
but, I do desire it.

And the way things have (not) been working out
for me lately, I probably always will
(desire it).

I don’t need to publish my book.
For almost two centuries Leonardo’s notebooks
gathered dust in Orazio Melzi’s attic.
Thus, the world can wait for the coming of my wisdom.

There is no real need here.
Merely my ego, my bleeding heart, my aching head.

I need more money.
“What happened to less is more?”
I’m not asking for more;
I’m asking for less—debt.

All I really need is
air, water, food, some shelter,
a little laughter (a little weed),
and a lot of love, great sex and
good ol’ fashioned affection.

And sometimes, a place, some space,
time and the mind—to write; to delight
in the minor details of life, to revel in the many
perfect moments that make life meaningful.

Really, now
that’s all I need.

Everything else is pretty silly,
willy-nilly, not really
a need.

Desire maybe,
but certainly, not a need.

Friday, October 19, 2007

A Day Alone

A Sign of The Times: Store For Rent
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

"I have never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will."
Henry David Thoreau

I spent most of the day yesterday all alone.

Apart from a little conversation with my flatmates in the morning, I spent Saturday wandering in Manhattan on my own and, admittedly, at some fleeting moments—lonely.

However, for the most part it was an exuberant loneliness, a cleansing of the soul almost, much like amazing sex can be.

Nonetheless and allthemore, the score was a win-win solution, for I could act upon a whim and not be thwarted by the need to compromise; I could wander aimlessly and not have to contend with the complaints of others less apt to stray; I could look up at the blue-blue sky and watch inspiring swaths of clouds slowly pass behind skyscrapers and think, “I need to sneak into the nearest tall building to take a picture of that!” and then, regardless of the risks, proceed to do exactly that, surpassing security by snaking my way through a gallery on the ground floor, down into their basement, onto the service elevator to the tenth floor, into the stairwell to ascend four more flights, and finally, to the top, where I took postcard-perfect photos of the city, just as I had envisioned while coursing through the streets below, only a few minutes before.

Alone, I could also eat, nibble and nosh by myself in a quiet corner of the closest Fresh Tortillas joint and not feel the pressure of keeping pace or having to be or dine elsewhere; I could take clandestine street photos, standing for long stretches of minutes anticipating and waiting for just the right decisive moment; and finally, I could be a bad-bad boy and wander from one theater to the next from 5 PM until 1 AM to see four movies for the price of one, and not be chastised or hampered or most importantly—caught.

Yes, indeed, there was a lot I could do alone, which is not as easy, and sometimes seemingly impossible, when you’re with others.

The last film of the movie marathon I saw yesterday (also including Michael Clayton, Rendition and Dan) was Into The Wild, which proved to be the perfect way to end this day alone.

The film, based on the non-fictional book by Jon Krakauer, is about the extraordinary choices of Christopher McCandless, aka Alexander Supertramp, a staunchly independent young man who long yearned to experience life on his own terms. To this end, at the age of 21, immediately upon graduating from college, he donates his life-savings of $24,000 to Oxfam (instead of applying it to Harvard Law, as his parents would have preferred), takes his beat-up yellow Datsun and drives—drives north toward his dream—Alaska.

Not far into his adventure, he abandons his vehicle in the middle of a desert, burns the last reserve of money and identification he has and takes his backpack and books and starts walking. His sole companions are the compelling words of Emerson, Tolstoy, Thoreau and his favorite author, Jack London.

"The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time. "
Jack London

Thus, his story seemed to befit my own for a day. I had no one to meet, no cell phone, and no agenda, leaving me free to be and do as I pleased.

However, as much as I truly-genuinely-sincerely reveled in my solitude, there was a moment when I was eating my $5 two-taco special that the sun gleamed through the front store window and I suddenly missed my boys—immensely.

They were spending the day with their maternal grandparents, so I knew they were in good hands, which was consoling. Nonetheless, I was compelled to send a text message to my estranged wife that read: “Please tell the boys, our boys, that I love them when you pick them up tomorrow.”

I didn’t though. I was too afraid that she would think it too becoming of my quirkiness and that this would somehow trigger a bout of anger, the one thing (ugh, long drawn-out and sullen sigh) that for years I have tried to avoid the most. Thus, I demurred.

And thus, I let my whim of sentiment go and continued on to the theater.

The haunting feeling revisited me though when I sat and watched Dan, a Hollywood fairytale about happy families and marriages that are meant-to-be.

As sickly ideal that this film was, I’ll admit I was touched. I’ve been a hopeless romantic ever since I was seven years old when something strange was piqued within, as I watched The Lady and the Tramp suck on spaghetti and inadvertently kiss, while sitting in the middle of my parents in the front seat of our white ford pickup truck at the Capitol Drive-in.

Hence, I was readily suckered into and sickened by this film.

It was a good sick though, a feeling of nostalgia and yearning for the elusive fulfillment of that seemingly universal, yet wholly futile, fantasy—about two people being “destined” to meet. And who, subsequently, overcome obstacles together and eventually build the kind of family where everyone seems to get along, despite all the daily problems of life. So that, in the end, ultimately—everyone is happy.

"All happy families resemble one another, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
Leo Tolstoy

In other words, while sitting and watching and wishing—I missed my boys again. Especially, whenever, Dan had to deal with the trials of tribulations of being a single parent (widow, of course) of three rambunctious girls.

Being that I live apart from my boys, these were moments when I felt sad that I did not have the opportunity to deal with both the good and the bad of their daily lives. I hate to think that somehow, despite all the scheduled times, I am missing watching them grow up.

I consoled myself by remembering that I have always worked rather diligently to make something of this time alone, and that as a consequence of this separation, I strive daily to create and write and take better pictures of this wonderful life around me, so that some day, others might be inspired by what I see; and so that some day, my boys might likewise be inspired, in turn melting away my worries that the time away from my boys was not, somehow, worthwhile, despite the pain of being apart.

(I’m about to give away the end of Into The Wild, so don’t read on if you care or haven’t read the book…)

Therefore, it is no surprise that at the end of Into the Wild, as the boy who became a man of his own accord, lie dying all alone of starvation and poisoning at the periphery of his beloved white-capped mountains, he sadly scrawls his last words: “Happiness must be shared.”

I have long agreed.

"To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Drunken Master vs. Basic Instinct Haiku

Faites l’amour, pas la guerre
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

October 19, 2007, New York City:

Drunken Master vs. Basic Instinct

I’m so glad women are stronger than men,
for I would go home with all of them
which is not so wise.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Lament Not

Lament Not
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Lament Not
(get dirty, goddamnit!)

For the last couple of weeks, months perhaps,
I’ve experienced nothing profound;
I haven’t experienced anything profound
(No profound experience here).

Perhaps, it is a seasonal thing;
when the weather turns against us,
and we turn in, it is only then, that we tend
to turn inward, as well.

Nonetheless and allthemore,
my life has been rife with bore-dom,
big-time disappointment, common mirth,
and, an occasional, respite of ecstasy.

But no epiphanies, no sudden gleam of wisdom,
no glaring realizations—No,
only bills and obligations,
and redeeming small pockets of joy.

As always, my boys continue
to make the meaningless meaningful.
Work, as always, continues
to frustrate me with its onslaught of ennui.

The book, finished as it may be,
may now never see—the light of day.
For, with utter dismay, I am slowly learning
of my publisher’s woeful and dire straits.

But wait! There is a light
at the end of this tunnel.
For am I not alive! and (fairly) well?
Do I not already have a thousand ribald tales to tell?

Haven’t I lived a life that most
common men envy?
Haven’t I made love with more
beautiful women than it is kosher to count?

Really now, let us dispel this despair
with a taste, a mere touch, of reality.
You have much to be grateful for,
and so much more to look forward to...

The ineptitude of circumstance,
as unsupportive of our great potential as it may be,
is a wholly ephemeral phenomenon; situations change,
especially, if one makes an effort to change them.

Thus, lament not that your life haunts you
when, in fact, you are far from dead!

Realize that it is merely your head—
your collective mind, heart and soul—
that is too big for your britches,
and that the emperor can always wear new clothes.

If you’re unhappy, than do something! (about it)
Write! Take a million more pictures! Wrestle life
to the ground and tussle with it in the mire! Aspire!

Don’t be afraid to get dirty, goddamnit!
Challenge yourself, rather than resign to mediocrity.
Break free of convention, for it is all too conventional
to hem and haw and forever complain of one’s woeful state.

Do not negate that you are indeed! Master of Your Universe,
the final and only true arbiter of your fate,
the purveyor of a reality that prospectively
will be extraordinary, if only,

you want it to be.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007


Originally uploaded by lorenzodom



But then our six-year old
stretches his arm out
from the deep comfort of sleep
and places it across me,
slightly squeezing my shoulder
with his little hand—
and I forget,
I let go,
if only for a precious moment,
I forget.

Meaning of VENT
Pronunciation: vent

1.[n] external opening of urinary or genital system of a lower vertebrate
2.[n] a hole for the escape of gas or air
3.[n] a fissure in the earth's crust through which molten lava and gases erupt
4.[v] expose to cool or cold air so as to cool or freshen
5.[v] give expression or utterance to; "She vented her anger"

Source: WordNet Dictionary

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Thinkin’ (Again)

BeWare of the White Sox Gang...
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

Thinkin’ (Again)

At last, I can think again.

For the last two days, I’ve been stricken with some mystery virus that had overcome my estranged wife, our oldest and myself. Each one of us had had all, or most, of these symptoms: intestinal discomfort, episodes of wanting to vomit, general malaise (queasiness), sinus headaches, overall body aching, and what felt like being on the brink of a respiratory infection.

In the process, I endured a full day at work, and although I could push paper alright, I lost my ability to think clearly, write creatively, and ponder the general meaning of the universe.

By the time the boss said, “Go home and rest…because I need you to come in tomorrow,” at 5 PM no less,” I could think of nothing more than sulking my woes away in bed.

Actually, I did subsequently think of other things along the way, including:

What am I doing here?

“I don’t want to work anymore.”

“Just 25 years more…before I might be able to retire."

Genius is a painful realization.
(Speaking of which, (oh, I might get in trouble for this…) I need (need) to convey (i.e. prag (1. v. paternally brag)) that recently one of the family took national tests for third grade academic aptitude and placed in the 99 percentile across the board (a perfect score in one of the three categories) and I am very-very proud of him. I promised my (ex)wife not to mention it in my “blog” and I truly-really had the fullest intentions to not do so. Alas (alas, alas, alas), prag (2. n. the compulsion to brag, because of paternal pride) got the best (worst) of me. Sorry Dom. If I could have written this with invisible ink or used a much smaller font, I swear I would have...)”

“Resign yourself, you’ve got no choice. Go home, rest and get better, because tomorrow you’ve got to show up at the office—the bills and obligations (and the boss) demand it.”

Thus, I went straight home, tidied up a bit, and made a makeshift welcome poster for my flatmate’s gurlfriend who was visiting from China and whom I was supposed to meet (but now knew I wouldn’t, after all, because I was about to quarantine myself in my bedroom for the rest of the night). After feeling as if everything was in order, I showered, took a horsepill of a multivitamin, drank a tall glass of juice, and then sank into bed to sweat out my ailment for the next 12 hours.

Subsequently, I did shake off much of the debilitating ailment, and, as is the tradition in these cases, I immediately began pledging “Never again, never again,” or at least, “I’ve got to take better care of myself.” Because, God knows, I’m not getting any younger.

Part of the reason I took so ill was that I was recovering from a game of soccer on Saturday morning, in which I ran non-stop up and down the field -stop for forty minutes. I was having so much fun that I completely ignored that age was becoming of me (I’ll turn 40 on Thanksgiving this year). In fact, I joked often with the much younger players amongst us, purporting, “Although we might excel in terms experience, our age and vices weigh in to put us at a much greater disadvantage.”

Thus, a day later, my immune system was shot, and the virus took advantage.

Nonetheless, regardless of my understanding of what was happening to me, I was still compelled to declare that I’m giving up all vices and living a healthy-conservative life, so that I might prevent these traumatizing events in the future, as well as not have to eventually feel that euthanasia is a better alternative to dying of depression, loneliness, ennui and the STDS that are all the rage at nursing homes these days.

Hence, I embraced my lack of hunger the last two days, especially since now that we’re back to wearing suits at work (and no longer wearing looser, more comfortable khakis), I’m feeling that things are a bit tight around the waist.

Problem is, although having to hold on to a warm and sticky subway pole this morning was not very reassuring, I am feeling better now. So, even though I’m only 10 pounds away from my ideal weight of 165, I’m lacking the proper motivation, which I’ve long attributed primarily to a chronic bout with ABD.

Moreover, albeit the 12 hours of reclusion seemingly killed the virus, I’ve still got the ennui, the job, (insert euphemism for marriage-gone-bad here), and the hefty weight of bills and obligation to contend with. Hence, sooner or later, I’m liable to foolishly thwart the pursuit of my ideals and aspirations and will begin to rely on my vices all over again as a means of escaping.

Oh, well. At least, for now, I can think again.


The man of genius is he who understands incomparably more about other beings than the average man. Goethe is said to have said of himself that there was no vice or crime of which he could not trace the tendency in himself, and that at some period of his life he could not have understood fully. The genius, therefore, is a more complicated, more richly endowed, more varied man; and a man is the closer to being a genius the more men he has in his personality, and the more really and strongly he has these others within him. If comprehension of those about him only flickers in him like a poor candle, then he is unable, like the great poet, to kindle a mighty flame in his heroes, to give distinction and character to his creations. The ideal of an artistic genius is to live in all men, to lose himself in all men, to reveal himself in multitudes; and so also the aim of the philosopher is to discover all others in himself, to fuse them into a unit which is his own unit.
— Otto Weininger—